


a light exists in spring

by Anonymous



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Post-Season/Series 08, Speculation, What Is Linear Storytelling? - The Musical, post 8x03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 12:23:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18717013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "What is the opposite of death," Bran asks her as the living share a feast in celebration of their victory, his gaze so far away he may not be even in the same room with them.It takes her a moon's turn to answer his question.





	a light exists in spring

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what will happen in the remaining episodes (or what I want to happen, for that matter). This is just a plot bunny that took flight and I had to post it before tonight's episode. 
> 
> Title borrowed from the poem of the same name by Emily Dickinson.

_Her name is Lyanna._

 

-

 

The older men, battle-worn soldiers, those who have fought in wars before and lived to tell the tale after it ended, know how these things come to happen. It's the thrill in their blood, every breath of cold winter air in widened lungs, the steady beating of a heart _thud-thud_.

It's the feeling of being alive, survival in its primal form.

They laugh at the giddy younglings, foolish boys who only think with their cocks if they stop to think long enough at all. The war is over and they lived - they _live_ \- and they return and now they get to lay with their girls, their wives.

No action is without consequence.

 

-

 

The future is for those who will get to see one.

Arya hadn't thought as far. She had wanted to spend what she had thought to be her final hours with someone she could trust, someone who made her feel alive, someone who could keep death just a little farther away.

For just one night, she wanted to _love_ again.

She had expected to die. And then she didn't.

Futures are for people who do not look death eye to eye and greet him like an old friend. They met time and time again, wearing different faces. Futures are for children, naive enough another dawn would bring more light.

Well, she should've considered as much.

"What is the opposite of death," Bran asks her as the living share a feast in celebration of their victory, his gaze so far away he may not be even in the same room with them.

It takes her a moon's turn to answer his question.

 

-

 

_Her name is Lyanna._

_The few soldiers that remain of what was once House Mormont's loyal battle force raise their jars to the newborn wolf pup; in memory of their own fierce, fearless Lady._

_Here she stands in the North, may she too be remembered for all generations to come._

 

-

 

"You will still join our armies marching towards the Capital, I presume?"

Arya turns to find her sister standing behind her. For a single moment she mistakes her for their mother, the Tully blue of her eyes and the red hair gleaming like copper in the meager shine of the torches.

Sansa stands high and tall, every inch the Queen of the North she was born to be.

"Aye, there is still unfinished business left for me in King's Landing. I'll fight for the Seven Kingdoms as I have fought for the North, until my last breath. So why wouldn't I?" she asks.

Many emotions flood Sansa's face then - sadness, resignation, pride, worry. It's a mixture of all of them and nothing. Arya knows she has known the answer before the question had left her mouth and yet hoped for a different one.

"Do you think me stupid?"

"Never."

"Then don't think you'll get anywhere pretending I have not noticed your condition."

Arya grips the handle of the dagger she'd just polished minutes ago a little harder. She prefers to not dwell on it for too long herself. She doesn't allow herself to think about any implications as long as the Mad Queen still breaths. But she is not surprised Sansa is the one seek her out about it.

"Be careful. And don't tell Jon, he will not let you fight if he knows. Your blacksmith too."

"I want to see them try to stop me." She drops the dagger from one hand and back to the other, quick as lightning.

Sansa smiles at her, indulgingly, like their father used to. She steps forward and embraces her in a hug, keeping her so close Arya can hear her heart beat.

"Come home, all of you."

 

-

 

They were no gods and yet they had thought themselves able to fight their judgement, even the Lioness on the Iron Throne and now she was just as dead as her golden children who had gone before her.

They had crowned another Queen in her stead, like they always did, and on her side sat a Dragon dressed in the furs of wolves.

The wheel of time it turns and turns.

The snake eats its own tail for ever and ever.

 

-

 

_Her name is Lyanna._

_The war is over, and somewhere among the ghosts dancing in the halls of Winterfell Ned Stark finally finds some peace._

 

-

 

The air inside the castle walls is thick, ancient even. At least here it smells better than down in the streets. King's Landing is a great many things, but it is not welcoming.

It is not _home_.

Unwanted memories force their way through her mind, and she keeps fighting to keep the upper hand. It is over now, her list is clear.

Still she waits for the birds to take flight.

He is angry, she knows. Arya is distinctly aware how she has disregarded his input when she had approached the Dragon Queen with her request. Now she has to deal with him as he his, the hard look around his eyes.

Gendry doesn't voice his dismay, but he shows.

"I thought it wiser to ask for their permission first and your forgiveness later," she breaks the silence, trying to be less demanding and failing on all accounts.

"You asked her to legitimate me and give me Storm's End to rule over."

"I did."

"You could have warned me," he says. 

"I would've married you as you stand her before me, the bastard blacksmith from Fleabottom, without a title or even a single coin to his name. You are the one going on and on about my status as a Lady."

"Because you are, Arya."

Arya is closer than ever to just shove him down onto the ground and leave him behind for somebody else to take care of.

Exhaustion and maybe a tiny grain of common sense keep her from it.

"And now you're a Lord, with a title and a castle to call your own. Congratulations, our possible marriage is a political allegiance on top of everything," she says with a voice sharper than Valyrian steel, sharper than any Dragonglass he could ever forge in shape.

Gendry frowns at her, a deep line splitting down above his nose. "You are awfully hellbent on wedding me."

She rolls her eyes at him, "I was awfully hellbent on _bedding_ you, if anything, and that has not changed," she replies nonchalantly, watches as his cheeks turn pink like a blushing maiden.

It's not entirely the truth. She'd have spent her last hours before the Battle of Winterfell with him regardless, even if he hadn't wanted her in his bed. But he doesn't have to know it all.

"You'd marry me then, if I asked." It's barely a question, soft and gentle, a stag waiting for the wolf to pounce.

"If you'd ask, yes. But I'd stay with you regardless, for as long as we can keep the God of Death far from our doors."

Gendry is her family, now just as much as he was all those years ago when he hadn't been able to see her as anybody but Arya of House Stark. She is Arya, then and now, and she is his partner, equal, she hopes.

"What is it you're not telling me then?"

Arya casts her eyes downward onto the ground, unable to meet his imploring gaze. She has laboured over the right course of action for days now, unsure which road to take.

Contrary to all her fears, to all logical reasoning, the child she carries under her heart is still growing just there, apparently undisturbed by any battle she has fought.

It would be unfair to keep it from him and trick him into something he did not want just as it would be not right to force him into marriage through a babe. She knew him well enough to know that he wouldn't want his child to be born a bastard like him, she had no similar qualms.

In a ploy to stall for time she had kept his hands away from her abdomen in the past days, under the pretence of keeping his hands away from the scars she still hasn't talked about. It has worked better than she would've expected. Men always were less perceptive, especially when naked skin was involved.

"Promise me you will make the choice you can live with the best," she asks, not begging, because she is still above it, but just on the wrong side of pleading.

He agrees with a nod of his hand and Arya takes it as the sign she needs; takes his hand by the wrist, wrapping her fingers around it and pulling him closer towards her until his palm rests on the slight swell of her belly.

His mouth falls open in surprise, but his hand doesn't move, his fingers gently caressing her skin underneath the tunic.

 

-

 

They share a bed together in her quarters. If anybody considers it unseemly they keep their thoughts to themselves. Even Jon doesn't comment on it, but he is preoccupied with other things. He is the Queen's Consort, to be her husband; his little sister's sleeping arrangements are his least concern.

Gendry hasn't said much yet.

"I'd be the wife of a blacksmith, you know." Arya voices her thoughts out loud, unsure if it will help him or not. It sounds louder in the darkness, far from the light.

"I know," he replies. His fingers lace with hers. "It's know what I want for you or our child."

He once again places their hands above her abdomen, almost reverently, never straying far from it now that he knows the truth.

"You'll have to teach me how to be a Lord."

She huffs a dark laugh, even as he pokes a finger at her ribs. "You'll need a better teacher than me, I am a lost cause. But I'm certain that Sansa will be more than willing to teach us both. And if anybody has anything to say about our manners, you can still forge me a weapon to make them see reason."

Gendry kisses her then, his mouth brandishes marks on her lips, her throat, her collarbone. Wherever he touches her, she lights up like a flame.

"Will you marry me?"

"Yes."

 

-

 

_Her name is Lyanna._

_She's a tiny slip of a thing, barely more than a handful in her father's arms, with wisps of dark hair and eyes as blue as a summer sky._ _But her cry is louder than the howl of the direwolves, healthy and strong and demanding._

_Arya looks down at the child that is theirs, the girl with the spirit of a Northener. She hopes her daughter will be a great warrior, a great woman one day._

_"She'll be your heir."_

_It's not a request._

_"Of course," he answers, without a shred of doubt._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for your time. Comments are very much appreciated, if you'd like.


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